A Night to Remember
by The Blackjack
Summary: Everyone knows the tale of the Dragonborn's grand night out, from selling goats to giants to acquiring the Sanguine Rose. But what of the hero's temporary fiancee? For one night, an unsuspecting mercenary was engaged to the Dragonborn. This is his story.


_A Night to Remember:  
>A Traditional Story from the Skyrim Civil War<em>

_By Tancredo Townway  
><em>_Originally published in the _New Camlorn Review, _Rain's Hand, 4e 213_

It was, without a doubt, the worst hangover that Marcurio had ever had.

He hadn't even opened his eyes, and yet he still felt dizzy. For a foolish second he tried to move his body. No response. It was just as well—his mind was still so fuzzy from the mead... Perhaps his mother was right about drinking.

Regardless, he knew that what he needed to do was sleep this hangover off. He could just keep on sleeping here, he figured. Although the ground was awfully cold... Wait, the ground? His friends hadn't even found him a bed? And why _was _the stone so cold? Riften was brisk this time of year, granted, but the floor here was nearly freezing.

He coaxed open one of his eyes. He realized that he was lying on his side in a stone room, and from here could only see a bookshelf. It was covered with books and alchemical apparatuses. He had never seen this place before in his life.

What _had _he done last night? There was the mead, a drinking contest, the pretty Altmer...

He groaned once, and to his surprise heard a voice behind him. "Oh, my, you've awakened."

Now both of Marcurio's eyes widened. He rolled himself over, steeling himself from a sudden welling of nausea, to see an old, bearded man sitting in a chair behind him. The man looked just as surprised as Marcurio. He pair looked at each other curiously for a moment. At last, Marcurio regained enough of his faculties to speak. "Who...?"

"My name is Tolfdir, lad," said the old wizard, "Although I'm afraid that I didn't catch your name."

"Marcurio," he grunted, pushing himself off the floor. He covered his face with his hand, waiting for the spell of dizziness to pass. "Where am I?"

Tolfdir looked even more surprised, if that was even possible. "Why, this is the College of Winterhold. Don't you remember?"

Marcurio didn't. He tried to think back, but he could still only clearly get as far as entering the Bee and Barb yesterday.

Then, the implications hit hit him.

"_Winterhold?" _

"Oh, yes," Tolfdir began, "It was most remarkable. You ran right past our sentry, who couldn't manage to stop you. Then you sprinted straight for my quarters and yelled for a few minutes. It was difficult to make out, I'm sorry to say."

Marcurio was at a loss for words. "Are you serious?"

"Oh, very serious, yes," said Tolfdir, "I wouldn't jest about this. You claimed it was very important."

A second passed as Marcurio waited for Tolfdir to elaborate. He didn't. Marcurio would've sighed if his head didn't feel like it was being torn apart. "Well, what did I say?"

"Well, I couldn't fully make sense of it. You were quite intoxicated, and you slurred your words so much that I could barely make them out. But I do remember that you said the fate of humanity was hanging in the balance."

"I did?"

"Oh, yes. It sounded most grave. Not even your upcoming wedding could lift your spirits."

Marcurio shook his head. He immediately regretted it: it felt as though his brain was bouncing against his temples. "There's got to be some sort of mistake. I'm single."

Tolfdir frowned. "Are you quite sure? That's a pity if you're correct. The Dragonborn would've made a most excellent spouse."

A flash of surprise rippled across Marcurio's face, but he drove it down. He gave a disbelieving smirk. "I claimed I was engaged to the Dragonborn?" Marcurio said with a snort, "Ludicrous."

"Perhaps so. I doubt that an adventurer of such a caliber is ready to put down roots. Still, if the marriage is off, you might want to return the axe. You claimed it was the proof of the love between the two of you, but if this is all a misunderstanding it should be returned to its rightful owner."

Marcurio looked about the room. "What axe?"

"Why, the Axe of Whiterun, of course," Tolfidr said, pointing to a nearby corner. Sure enough, an axe lay leaning against the wall. It looked familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. Marcurio had once done a job for the Jarl of Whiterun, and saw that very blade at the Jarl's side. But the Dragonborn was Thane of Whiterun, which meant that the axe would've been passed to... "You set it down before you passed out," Tolfdir continued, "I looked it over for a moment this morning—it's quite a lovely enchantment."

Suddenly, the world seemed to be weighing very heavily on Marcurio's shoulders. He stumbled to a nearby chair and collapsed into it. If the axe was legitimate, that means he must've ran into the Dragonborn last night, and somehow managed to get the signature weapon of Whiterun Hold. What kind of scenario could that actually happen in, though? He shook his head, which was still turgid from mead. "So you're telling me that last night I came here, to Winterhold, claiming that I was engaged to the Dragonborn and that the fate of humanity was at stake?"

"Yes, that is precisely what happened. Well, to be fair, you mumbled quite a few things, too, but those were the two points you were most clear on. Then you said, 'don't let me forget about the note,' and collapsed on the floor."

"There was a note?" Marcurio said, shoving his hands into his pouches.

"Well, you said there was one, at any rate," Tolfdir responded.

Marcurio dug around in his pockets for a few more moments before he felt a sheet of paper he knew wasn't there before. He hastily seized it from his pocket and tried his best to read it, despite the focus making him feel sick. He saw the following written in an unfamiliar, feminine handwriting.

_Do what you need to do, then meet me at Dawnstar as soon as possible._

_- E_

'E'? 'What he had to do'? None of it seemed remotely familiar. Still, he couldn't deny the existence of the note. And, whatever else the case may be, it did provide him with some sort of lead. He stood up on shaky legs. "I need to get to Dawnstar," said Marcurio.

"Well, that's due west from here," replied Tolfdir.

"Great," Marcurio mumbled, heading for the door.

"Wait, young man!" Tolfdir called out, "You nearly forgot the axe."

Marcurio pivoted around and grabbed the axe from the wall. "Wouldn't want to forget that," he said through clenched teeth.

"Oh, most certainly not," replied Tolfdir, "Good luck son."

Marcurio lurched out the door with a newly-found urgency to his step. Tolfdir simply stood from his chair and returned to the reading that Marcurio had disrupted the night prior. The youth these days. Tolfdir certainly never drank that much when he was a student. Not enough to propose to famous heroes, at any rate.

Still, Tolfdir didn't mind too much. It did make for a very interesting evening. Of course, had Tolfdir truly understood just what had actually passed the night prior, he likely would've of seen it as one of the most important nights in recent memory, almost tectonic in its metaphysical consequences for Tamriel.

But Tolfdir didn't know. And the only witness to the whole affair, Marcurio, didn't know, either. A pity that these facts would consequentially vanish from the historical record, but as Marcurio's mother always said, nothing good ever comes from alcohol.


End file.
